


Don't Look Back

by KillainsTales



Series: To The End [1]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), Fall Out Boy, Green Day, My Chemical Romance, The Used
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, Serious Injuries, So many song references, Song references, might help though, more characters will be added, this is backstory for to the end, you don't have to read this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8674105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillainsTales/pseuds/KillainsTales
Summary: It started with two brothers, and became so much more.The Killjoys weren’t always the colourful rebels that Josh follows into the desert. In front of them lies adventure and excitement, but in their history you find betrayal and death.A series of oneshots exploring the Killjoys, how they formed, and how they became the group of Zonerunners that Josh finds shooting up a warehouse in Battery City.





	1. Ritalin Nests, Fire and Family

**Author's Note:**

> Helloo, it's me again. Like I said, this is just backstory, starting with how Gerard and Mikey lost their family and left the city.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> Thanks, Vicky, as ever

Mikey curled into a ball on the couch, eyes scanning the Mousekat comic greedily.

 

"Michael?" His mother put her head around the door. "Five minutes to dinner."

 

"Okay."

 

"I'll call you when it's ready, dear."

 

Mikey nodded blankly, eyes on his comic, ears on the door. If Gerard came back now, everything would be fine again.

 

Donna Way sighed, guessing why he was so intent on solitude and silence. "He's never coming home, sweetie."

 

"Why not?" Mikey felt tears well up, and quickly wiped under his glasses. "I miss him, Mom."

 

"I know, I know. Some people just don't want to live in this world."

 

"What does that mean?"

 

"They can't accept that the human condition needs to be treated, and Better Living are the best people to do it."

 

"Why won't he?"

 

"I don't know, sweetie. Your brother-" she paused and glanced around, lowering her voice, "-and your grandma just weren't right for the city."

 

"Don't say that!" Mikey snapped.

 

"Michael!"

 

"Don't talk about him in the - the past tense!"

 

For a minute, Donna looked like she was actually going to get angry, but it was like a switch flipped inside her brain instead. Her forehead smoothed out, her face going blank again. "Don't shout in the house, Michael."

 

"It's Mikey," Mikey muttered sullenly, turning back to his comic, one ear listening for the door.

 

He could hear gentle chatter coming from the kitchen. Grandad laying the table, Dad and Mom cooking as Dad droned on about work. They were close to cleaning out the city, he said. The squalid hovels where Rats and Juvies hid to commit crimes and take illegal drugs would soon be completely destroyed.

 

Mikey gritted his teeth. He knew what Gerard did when he disappeared; he'd grown used to his brother climbing into his bed late at night, reeking of alcohol and, more recently, something else. Their dad was talking like his son wasn't one of those kids.

 

A muffled boom came from the end of the street.

 

"What was that?" Donna asked, and Mikey could hear her running to look.

 

Another boom, but closer. He'd never heard anything like it.

 

"Oh, my goodness."

 

 _Boom._ Mikey could feel the shuddering through the floor.

 

"Donna, what is it?" That was Grandad.

 

"Mikey! Dad, get Mikey!"

 

"Honey?"

 

Getting closer still. Mikey shuffled off the couch and curled under a table, listening as his mother panicked.

 

"Don! We have to run. They're-"

 

The house collapsed.

 

Mikey heard his mother scream before everything was lost in an orange wall of heat and light. The table collapsed on his legs, and the orange thing pounced on it.

 

He yelled, flinching away from the burning; he'd never felt anything like it in his life. It hissed and snarled like the alley dogs, devouring everything it could reach.

 

He couldn't breathe. He was trapped.

 

"Mikey!" Someone was screaming, loud, raw, hysterical. "Mom? Dad? Grandad? Mikey!"

 

He knew that voice.

 

"Mikey!"

 

"Gee…" His throat caught, and he tried again. "Gee! Gerard!"

 

Gerard was dead. Never coming home.

 

"Mikey? Mikey!"

 

Maybe he was dead, too. Gerard was here to fetch him to whatever came next.

 

_"Mikey!"_

 

Mikey Way closed his eyes.

 

\-----

 

Gerard Way closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose, feeling the world melt away. It was weird; somehow he felt more detached, but more aware of himself at the same time. Were the drugs meant to do this? They were supposed to block everything out, right? Make you feel nothing?

 

"Good shit, right?" Bert pressed.

 

Gerard only opened his eyes to glare at him. "Let me enjoy it, then."

 

Bert grinned, pushing a long strand behind his ear. How he managed to get away with it was anyone's guess, but then Bert McCracken wasn't often seen in public. "C'mon, Gee. You're my tester. Couldn't do it without you, but I kinda need some feedback?"

 

"It's good." Gerard frowned slightly. He didn't like Bert calling him Gee; that was for…someone. Who was it? He had a flash of brown hair and glasses before it was gone again. "Where'd you get this shit?"

 

"Trade secret, I'm afraid."

 

"I'm part of your trade," Gerard countered. He wanted to know more. Fuck that, he wanted more of this Ritalin.

 

"Soon, kid, soon."

 

"Whatever." He tried to relax again, enjoy the light, floating emptiness, but the sound of an explosion nearly knocked him off his chair. "The fuck?"

 

"BL are bombing again." Bert peered through the ratty curtains, flinching at the next bang. "Poor fuckers."

 

"Where?"

 

"Garden District, looks like. It's close."

 

"I…" Gerard shook his head. He had something to remember. What was in the Garden neighbourhood? "My - my family!"

 

Bert looked shocked; they'd both agreed minimal information was necessary, in the interests of safety. Gerard blurted out a last goodbye and sprinted out of the door, trying to clear the drug haze from his head.

 

Another explosion, and now he could see the Better Living vehicles ahead, see the roaring flames against the artificial sky. Mikey would be so scared…

 

 _Mikey_. The only person allowed to call him Gee.

 

Gerard turned onto his street as the last white vehicle turned off at the other end, and nearly fell to his knees.

 

Every single house was destroyed, little more than a pile of flaming rubble.

 

"No…" His parents, his grandpa, his kid brother.

 

He ran again, ignoring the way it made him retch and gag, ignoring the way his heart pounded uncomfortably as the drugs moved sluggishly through his veins.

 

"Mikey!" he yelled, stumbling to a halt outside the third house on the right. It was just as much of a wreck as the others; you'd never tell it apart. "Mom? Dad? Grandad?"

 

Nothing.

 

As a last, hoarse cry he screamed, "Mikey!" He didn't care if he was found, if BL took him in to condition him. He should have been here. He should have died with his family.

 

"Gee!"

 

Gerard froze at the little voice, thin and frail under the roar of the fire.

 

"Gerard!"

 

"Mikey!" Gerard yelped, scrambling towards the ruins of his home, not caring about the heat or the stinging smoke. The flames were dying out as quickly as they must have come. "Where are you? Keep shouting! Mikey!"

 

Nothing.

 

_"Mikey!"_

 

Gerard scrabbled around the corner nearest where the front door had been, the remains of the living room. Most of the house seemed to have collapsed backwards, meaning the kitchen, the dining room and most of upstairs were completely destroyed.

 

With a final hiss, the fire gave up and sputtered out, leaving a smoking pile of ash and rubble. He could see the remains of a couch - actually, he could see most of the living room around him. The fires hadn't damaged it as badly as the rest of the house.

 

"Mikey?"

 

No answer.

 

Gerard sank to the ground and cried: for all the innocents whose houses were just as lifeless as his; for himself; for his little brother.

 

Something glinted in the corner of his eye. Without thinking, he pounced on the charred shell of what had been the coffee table and flipped it over, nearly crushing the pair of glasses that had caught his attention in the first place.

 

 _Don't hope_. He couldn't help it.

 

Under the table was Mikey, frighteningly still, grey with ash, red from the heat.

 

"Fuck!" Gerard scooped him up, listening for a breath. "Mikey, Mikey, Mikey, please, Mikey, Mikey…"

 

If he'd found his brother, only for him to be dead…

 

He didn't realise he'd moved until his legs gave up and he collapsed on the grey grass, still cradling Mikey in his arms.

 

 _Breathe in his mouth,_ Bert's voice whispered.

 

Often, kids overdosed. Gerard had lost count of the number of times he'd seen Bert save someone from choking on their own sick, having a heart attack, convulsing.

 

Gently.

 

_In…in…_

 

Mikey coughed and choked, his back arching off the floor as he retched up ashy bile. When it was over, he sucked in huge, shuddering breaths, staring at something Gerard couldn't see.

 

"I'm here," he promised, watching the flames down the street rise higher before they were suddenly gone as well, something unseen snuffing them out. Something told him this was it; he could search all he wanted but there would be no one left alive. Mikey was all he had left. "I'm here, Mikey, I've got you. I'm gonna look after you, I promise. Nothing's ever gonna hurt you again. I'm going to protect you."

 

Mikey didn't react at all, still gazing at nothing but clutching Gerard for dear life.

 

"You're safe, kid." Gerard mumbled insensibly into the top of Mikey's head. How had he forgotten this? Why had he allowed the drugs to take over?

 

Mikey slowly stopped quivering and began to look around. "Gee?"

 

"Hey." Gerard tried to smile, but broke into another sob.

 

“What…Mom…Grandad…”

 

“I’m sorry, kiddo.” Gerard let himself cry into his brother’s hair. He hadn’t cried since he was twelve, since he’d come of age to go on the medication, since their grandmother had given him a kiss in the middle of the night and been gone by the morning. “They’re not coming back.”

 

Mikey didn’t seem to understand, staring blankly at the ashy wreck of their home.

 

Not a home, Gerard decided. He was old enough to know the difference between a house and a home.

 

Bright lights, a few streets over.

 

“Come on.” He tried to pull Mikey to his feet. “We can’t stay here.”

 

“Where will we go?”

 

“The Lobby.”

 

“But-“

 

“It’s not as scary as Dad made it sound, I promise. There’ll be people there who can put us up.” Gerard knelt next to Mikey again. “Wanna ride on my back?”

 

He stumbled down the street, Mikey hanging awkwardly from his neck, trying to get away before the lights caught up and finished them for good.

 

Something grabbed his wrist, and he almost shat his pants.

 

“This way,” the Something hissed, and Mikey yelped in shock, but Gerard gasped out a sigh of relief.

 

“Bert!”

 

“You need to come now,” Bert pressed. “They’re looking for survivors. You need to hide.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Our place, of course.”

 

“No.” Gerard stopped, shaking his head, and clutched at Mikey. “No, Bert, I’m not bringing him in there. Forget it.”

 

Bert thought for a second, tugging at his long hair. “Ugh, fine. You’d better not complain about this one, though.”

 

With that, he turned and led them away from the city centre, away from the Lobby, criss-crossing through roads and sidewalks until Gerard could see the glint of the dome in the night sky.

 

“We’re going to the city limits?” He could feel Mikey growing heavier, supporting his own weight less and less, and he knew they both needed to pass out soon.

 

“Almost.”

 

“But-“

 

“Don’t complain. It’s clean.” Bert ducked into a small doorway, almost hidden by a perfectly trimmed hedge, and Gerard followed, trying to make sure Mikey didn’t hit his head.

 

Bert flicked a switch as he went, and a crappy little bulb lit the large room. It was covered in maps, pictures, and – shit, he had a gun on the table.

 

“Bert, what-“

 

“I’m a runner,” Bert said simply. “I go back and forth between here and the desert. Surprised you hadn’t guessed already, to be honest. Now, come on: bring the kid this way.”

 

Between them, they wiped Mikey down as best they could, checked out his burns and settled him into the bed. He clung to Gerard’s hand, even as he slept, not looking quite as peaceful as he should have.

 

“Is he your brother?” Bert whispered.

 

Gerard paused for a second, but nodded.

 

“He made you remember. I saw it. You fucking beat the pills, man. You have a brain.”

 

“What? You’re a dealer, Bert, a city rat through and through. You push those drugs to thousands of kids.”

 

“What I give you ain’t Ritalin. It acts like it, so the powers-that-be don’t suspect you kids, but it’s a way of weaning off the pills. Sometimes it takes years, but you, tonight – I’ve never seen anything like it, Gee. You proper fought it, and you won.” Bert’s speech was becoming more and more casual, colloquial, slipping into phrases Gerard had never heard in the city. “You don’t belong here, any more than your kid brother belongs in the Lobby. You need to get out.”

 

“What, like, right now?” Gerard frowned. Was Bert pissed that Gerard had overridden the drugs? Did he think they were dangerous?

 

“Nah, man. You need to go into the Zones.”

 

 _Fuck_. “There’s nothing out there. Just sand, and poisonous air that turns you inside out.”

 

“You still believe everything your daddy told you? The company? After what they just did? They nearly killed your brother, for no other reason than to inspire fear. Look.” Bert reached out to prod the television, and it fizzled on to show Fact News, the anchor midway through a bland, monotonous spiel.

 

_“City authorities have confirmed that the horrendous attack tonight on the Garden Neighbourhood was carried out by the terrorist group calling themselves the Killjoys. What would we do without SCARECROW to keep us safe?”_

 

“That’s a lie.” Gerard swallowed. “I saw them, I saw the trucks-“

 

“But it’s convenient for them to have an enemy, so they can be the saviours of the people.”

 

“Are you saying the Killjoys aren’t real?”

 

“Nah, I’ve met them.” This was thrown out so casually that Gerard almost couldn’t believe he’d said it. The next bit nearly made him fall off the bed. “What do you think your grandma’s been doing for a year?”


	2. Names and Killjoys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The desert,” Poison told him. “It’s where we live now. We are part of her, and she’s a part of us.”
> 
> They took a few more steps.
> 
> “Feel the desert in our blood,” Kobra agreed. “Feel the freedom, the anger, the hope.”
> 
> “That’s my boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Did you notice AO3 was down yesterday? Stressful times.
> 
> Thanks to Vicky for betaing/reacting.
> 
> It's still 2019, Gerard is 13, and Mikey is 10.

"Look at those fuckers." Bert paused, gesturing up into one of the apartment buildings. People moved sluggishly past the windows, slow, dreamlike. "Having a party. What do they know?"

 

"I'd kill that party," Gerard muttered, one hand still clutching Mikey's as they crept down the alley towards the edge of the city. They were dressed in black, which felt wrong, but strangely right at the same time.

 

"Woah, steady on, kid. No need to poison the party just yet."

 

"I am the party poison. No fucking pills, no fake happiness. Just me."

 

"Party poison," Mikey echoed happily. "That's a cool name."

 

"Huh?" Gerard turned to him in confusion, Bert's warning ringing in his ears.

 

_You can't use your real names._

_Why not?_

_You need to be someone else. You need to get rid of anything they can use to follow you._

 

"Party Poison." Gerard tried it slowly, liking the way it sounded, explosive, unforgettable. "Not bad, Mikey. What about yours?"

 

"Short, skinny, spectacled loser?"

 

"Mikey!" Gerard admonished him. "You're cooler than that!"

 

"Fucking fireproof," Bert agreed. "Like a cockroach."

 

"Rude."

 

"No, you know what you are. You're a snake. Slippery, hard to corner, hard to catch, hard to kill." Bert said this like it was the highest compliment possible. "Like them rattlers I see when I go on a run."

 

"Hm." Mikey frowned, and Gerard could practically see his brain working. "Super Snake."

 

"Cool Cobra," Gerard laughed.

 

"Cobra Kid," Bert suggested.

 

"I'm not a kid!"

 

"Kobra, with a K," Gerard mused, ignoring Mikey's outraged protests.

 

"That's cool." Bert looked at Mikey. "Your brother's got something there."

 

"Really?"

 

"Yeah! Party Poison and the fucking Kobra Kid." Bert swept his arms dramatically, making his flashlight whirl across the walls around them. "Although maybe not 'fucking'."

 

"Maybe don't flash that around so much either?" Gerard suggested weakly.

 

"Alright, Poison."

 

That was his name now. Poison ran his hand through his hair, tugging at it. He could do what he wanted with it now, dye it whatever colour he wanted, the ends, the roots. He was free.

 

"We're here," Bert announced quietly, and Mikey - Kobra Kid - huddled closer to Poison. "One day I'll come here and there won't be a hole anymore."

 

Poison squinted through the ragged gap in the wall, feeling a breath of air stroke his face. Wind?

 

The ground was smooth and flat, painted almost white by the moon. The moon - it was so much brighter than he'd ever seen it, full and beautiful, surrounded by sharp points of light. Were they stars?

 

"Wow," Kobra breathed.

 

"Just a sec." Bert tugged on Poison's arm. "Never tell anyone he's your brother."

 

"Why not?" Poison glanced between him and Kobra with a frown.

 

"I can see the way you look at him. If anyone wanted you to do anything, anything at all, all they'd have to do is threaten him. Likewise with Cyanide. The desert is not the city; you don't know who you can trust." Bert sounded sincere enough that Poison nodded.

 

"I'll keep him safe, whatever that takes."

 

"That's what I'm worried about." Bert rolled his eyes, but pulled them both into a hug. "I'm gonna miss you annoying me, Poison."

 

"Same here, man."

 

"I'll help as many kids as I can, I promise."

 

"You helped me."

 

"You helped you. You fought, and you won." Bert glanced at Mikey. "You keep an eye on him, too, you hear? I want you two to become fucking legends. You're gonna rule this desert."

 

Kobra nodded solemnly.

 

“See you, Bert.”

 

“If I do my job right, hopefully.” Bert reached out to ruffle Poison’s hair one last time. “Try not to get caught in any wars. Half the zonies out there have no fucking clue what they’re doing; more dangerous to themselves than to you, but even so. Take care.”

 

“You too.” Poison smiled, squeezing Kobra’s hand tightly. “You ready, kiddo?”

 

Kobra paused for a second, mouth moving silently like he was trying to shape a new word, and then stated, “Fucking ready.”

 

“He’s gonna fit right in,” Bert laughed, already melting back into the city. “I wanna be hearing your names in future, alright? You got this.”

 

Poison nodded, and ducked through the gap. The ground was soft under his feet, crumbling away as he tried to step on it, like dust. Kobra laughed and bent down to bury his hands in it.

 

“The desert,” Poison told him. “It’s where we live now. We are part of her, and she’s a part of us.”

 

They took a few more steps.

 

“Feel the desert in our blood,” Kobra agreed. “Feel the freedom, the anger, the hope.”

 

“That’s my boy.”

 

They kept going, not turning to look at the city once.

 

\-------------------------------------

 

“I’m tired,” Kobra whined, trailing behind Poison as they trekked towards what Poison hoped would be a new settlement.

 

“You’re always fucking tired,” Poison snapped back.

 

“Because we’re always fucking walking!”

 

Poison couldn’t even bring himself to react to his ten-year-old brother swearing. It happened often enough, after all. “We can’t just sleep out in the open. We need to find shelter.”

 

“That old diner we passed about two hours ago would have been fine! It probably had water, too.”

 

And so it had been for the past month. Trekking through the desert, more often than not hopelessly lost, tired, crabby, close to dehydration. Occasionally they\d stumbled on groups of neutrals, who were helpful, but afraid of being too political; the minute Poison mentioned either the city or the Killjoys, they clammed up. Abandoned buildings offered non-judgmental shelter, and perhaps Kobra was right about the diner, but Poison didn't want to admit it just yet. Surviving was exhausting enough without constantly battling a ten-year-old.

 

“Mikey.” Poison sighed wearily. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

 

“And I don’t want to keep walking!”

 

“Kobra…”

 

No answer.

 

“Kobra?” Poison stopped walking, listening to the desert. He’d gotten used to it over the past month, feeling sand and sun running through his veins. “Kobra Kid!”

 

Silence.

 

“Fuck-“ Poison’s hand went for the crappy old blaster he’d accepted from a kind group of neutral nomads the week before, but something grabbed his arm and yanked it halfway up his back. “Ow! What the fuck!”

 

“Get down, kid,” someone hissed, and Poison’s legs were kicked out from under him. He landed on his face with a grunt, sucked in a mouthful of sand, and spluttered incoherently. Both his arms were twisted up and behind him, and he hissed. “And keep quiet!”

 

"What do we have here?" a male voice growled, and, somewhere nearby, Kobra yelped in shock. Poison tried to push up from the ground, but they only pulled his arms tighter. "Kids."

 

Kobra whimpered, and Poison felt his throat closing up. "No, no, no, no, let him go, please, please don't hurt him, he's just a kid, please-"

 

"Shut up." Poison's head was shoved into the sand again and he coughed.

 

"Supernova? What we doing with them?"

 

"We'll take 'em to Cyanide and make 'em explain what they're doing on our territory."

 

“You wanna give ‘em a chance to explain? Just ghost them now.”

 

“They might have information. We’ll get it out of them.”

 

Kobra let out a muffled sob.

 

"Kobra," Poison mumbled. "Don't worry, kid, it'll be fine."

 

"Don't tell lies," one of the men hissed, and Poison shuddered.

 

They were hauled to their feet and forced to walk, stumbling, feet dragging in the sand. A huge metal shed loomed in front of them, black even in the moonlight. Poison cursed himself; how had he missed it? Was he so blind he hadn’t seen the cluster of cars parked in front of it, glinting under the sky?

 

"Inside." The doors were flung open and Poison was assaulted by a wave of noise.

 

People, easily a hundred, stood in small groups, arguing and shouting over each other. Every single one wore black and had their face covered with skull masks, stark and terrifying in the darkness.

 

"What you got there, Wonderwall?" someone called.

 

"Couple of little zone rats trying to spy."

 

"We were not-" Poison started, and was rewarded by a kick to the back of his knees.

 

"Hey, easy," a woman argued. Maybe they weren't all so bad.

 

Their captors forced them to what seemed to be the front of the room where a woman stood proudly, long white hair flowing from beneath her mask as she argued passionately with three young men. By her side were two kids. One looked about Poison's age, with a huge frizz of brown hair, while the other seemed closer to Kobra, small, with bones printed on his black gloves.

 

The men finally let go of Poison and Kobra, and Poison wrapped Kobra in his arms, feeling him tremble. "You're okay, you're okay, I won't let them hurt you…"

 

"What's this?" the woman demanded, and Poison froze. He knew that voice. "I didn't realise we were beating up kids now."

 

"They were trespassing," one of the men retorted.

 

"Oh, honestly, Supernova. I know you're stupid, but do they look like they have any idea? Really? They've probably escaped from the city, poor things. We're meant to help kids like these."

 

Poison tried to catch her eye desperately, willing her to recognise them.

 

"I know it's hard for you to all work together, but it's what this is all about! We have a real chance of - oh." The woman's voice quivered as she finally looked back at Poison, still curled around his brother. "Boys?"

 

"Hey." Poison smiled weakly at his grandmother.

 

There was a pause while Elena Rush steeled herself. "Everybody out."

 

"What?"

 

"You heard me. Get out. When you all agree on something, come back to me. That means you as well, Wonderwall, Supernova. Until we can work together, Six will stay under BL/Ind control. Leave now. Hurry up."

 

Everyone filed out, grumbling, and Poison could hear the rumble of car engines starting.

 

“This is your fucking fault,” Supernova muttered to one of his teammates as they stalked away.

 

“My fault? You wanted to jump the kids!”

 

“They could have been BL/Ind spies, Wonderwall. It was your idea to bring them here rather than putting a blaster to the backs of their heads.”

 

The door slammed, car horns blared, and finally everything was quiet. Only the three men and the two kids lingered by Elena, staring at Poison and Kobra huddled on the floor.

 

"Kobra," Poison whispered, shaking him gently. His brother was still curled up, shivering violently. "They're gone, it's okay. They can't hurt you, I'll never let them hurt you, ever."

 

"Boys." Their grandmother crouched next to them, pulling off her mask. She looked exactly like she had the last time Gerard had seen her, kissing him goodbye in the middle of the night. "What are you doing out here?"

 

"Looking for you." Poison swallowed. "They - everyone's dead. BL firebombed our neighbourhood. I barely got Kobra out. A friend of mine said you'd be out here. We've been looking for nearly a month." He took a shaky breath, gently resting his chin on top of Kobra's head.

 

The two kids stopped glaring suspiciously and instead gave them looks full of sympathy.

 

"Oh, my boys." Elena pulled them both into a hug. "And you're not using your real names?"

 

"No. I'm Party Poison. This is Kobra Kid."

 

"With a K." Kobra finally emerged from Poison’s arms.

 

"Nice," their grandmother smiled. "I'm Cyanide. These are the American Idiots: Saint Jimmy, Jesus and Letterbomb."

 

"It's Jesus of Suburbia," one mumbled, and his friend, short with spiky hair, spluttered out a laugh as they all pulled their masks off.

 

"And these two." Cyanide gestured to the other kids. "Fun Ghoul and Jet Star."

 

Poison nodded, looking his grandmother up and down. She was different to the woman he remembered; more vibrant, more alive.

 

She smiled. "I'm so happy to see you, boys. We're the Killjoys."

 

" _You_ are the Killjoys," the small man with spiky hair corrected. "It's a fucking miracle you managed to get us all here, but we are nothing to do with you."

 

"Calm down, Jimmy," Cyanide said calmly. "Boys, how did you know I was out here?"

 

"My, uh, friend Bert told us."

 

"Ah!" She looked frustrated. "That boy!"

 

"He hid us for a few days before he showed us the way out - wait, you _know_ him?"

 

"Of course I know him. How do you think he knew where to send you?"

 

"Cemetery knows him," the shorter kid piped up. "You should tell him how he's doing."

 

"Go and fetch him, Ghoul," Cyanide said brightly, and Ghoul ran to a small door and ducked out into the night.

 

"Honestly, it was almost a month ago." Poison shrugged.

 

"What?"

 

"Since we saw him. We left the city, and he stayed there. We’ve been alone since then."

 

Saint Jimmy narrowed his eyes as Cyanide wrapped them in a hug. Kobra was close to falling asleep, leaning heavily on Poison's side.

 

"Piggyback?"

 

That got Poison a drowsy nod, so he hoisted his brother onto his back, grinning as he felt Kobra relax.

 

"I found him!" Ghoul announced proudly, appearing from nowhere, and Poison turned to see a boy a little older than him, blond scruff already growing around his chin.

 

"New strays?" he asked casually.

 

Poison instantly hated the way his eyes flickered up and down disparagingly, taking in Kobra curled up on Poison's back and Cyanide standing next to them.

 

"Come here, Cemetery," Cyanide said sharply. "You too, boys, and yes, you three. This is never to be repeated. Ever."

 

"Shoot," Saint Jimmy said coolly.

 

"These are my grandkids."

 

Poison started, Bert's dire warning echoing in his ears.

 

_Never tell anyone he's your brother._

_Why not?_

_I can see the way you look at him. If anyone wanted you to do anything, anything at all, all they'd have to do is threaten him. Likewise with Cyanide. The desert is not the city; you don't know who you can trust._

 

"They're brothers?" Cemetery guessed. Poison clutched Kobra closer to him. "Relax, I'm not going to hurt him."

 

"You wouldn't get near him," Poison snarled in reply, bending his knees and getting ready to pounce.

 

"Well, at least we know how you got by for a month by yourselves." Saint Jimmy looked faintly impressed, holding his hands out in a calming gesture. "Chill, kiddo, no one's gonna touch either of you."

 

Poison glared at all of them in turn, his grandmother included, and shifted Kobra so he was resting on his hip.

 

"Proper little firecracker, hm?" Saint Jimmy muttered.

 

"Like his grandma," Cyanide agreed proudly, and another of the American Idiots – Letterbomb – rolled his eyes.

 

"Cyanide?" Ghoul was there, young eyes wide and innocent. "If they're your real grandkids, does that mean we aren't your grandkids anymore?"

 

"Ghoul?" Jet sounded embarrassed, and his voice was higher than Poison had expected. "You can't ask things like that!"

 

"Why not?" The same pleading eyes were turned on Jet, who was crumbling.

 

“Because it’s…not polite.” Jet Star turned pleading eyes on Poison, who suddenly found he recognised the agony he found there: the pain and frustration of an older brother, even an adopted one.

 

Ghoul, of course, did exactly the same. “I wasn’t bein’ rude!”

 

“I believe you,” Poison said calmly, hiking Mikey higher on his waist. “You’re just asking.”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“Well, can we all be brothers? How’s that for you? Then you’re still Cyanide’s grandkids, just like us.”

 

“I like that,” Ghoul announced proudly, edging closer and peering up at Kobra, whose legs were wrapped around Poison’s stomach. “What’s up?”

 

“He’s just tired.”

 

“You kept makin’ me walk,” Kobra interjected, muffled by his faceful of Poison’s shoulder, and Cemetery and Saint Jimmy spluttered into laughter.

 

“That is true,” Poison said sagely.

 

Cyanide smiled. “We’ll get you boys somewhere to sleep, alright? Jet, Cemetery, can you sort something out, please?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“This way, boys.”

 

They all shuffled out of the building. The American Idiots waved goodbye and slid into a boxy-looking car, scuffed and dusty, the license plate reading BRKN DRM. It was fucking cool.

 

“’68 Mercury Monterey,” Cyanide explained as it squealed away, music blaring. Poison caught snatches through the air.

 

_“Don’t wanna be…don’t want a nation under the new media…hysteria…subliminal mindfuck America…”_

 

“Poison,” Kobra whispered when they started walking again, or when Poison started walking and Kobra clung on for dear life.

 

“’Sup, kiddo?”

 

“Are they, like, our brothers now?”

 

“I guess.”

 

“Do you like them more?”

 

“What? No! Of course not! You’re my real brother, Kobra, and I’m always gonna love you. Got it?”

 

“Mm-hm.”

 

“Good.” Poison managed to reach around and ruffle his hair without dropping him, and followed Cyanide to what would hopefully be a warm bed.


	3. A Little Less BL/Ind, A Little More Gold Standard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick was going to die. He knew it. Fact.
> 
> \-----
> 
> The red figure stood, giving a Drac a final, vicious kick in the head, and turned to face Youngblood.
> 
> It was a kid, barely older than they were, red hood pulled up over his head, long black hair sweeping down his face.
> 
> "You call yourselves zone runners?" he snarled, turning to stalk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am (finally) back, but the good news is I have a couple of chapters ready to go after this. Thanks again to Vicky; your opinion on commas is incredibly valuable.
> 
> The year is 2020, a year after Gerard and Mikey left Battery City. Patrick is twelve, Joe and Andy are thirteen and Pete is fourteen.

Patrick was going to die. He knew it. _Fact_.

 

Here he was, cowering inside the clapped-out van he was sharing with Joe and Andy, Dracs swarming around like hungry dogs around roadkill. Somewhere nearby, he could hear Andy yelling in pain: so they liked to fuck with them before killing them. Awesome.

 

The door was flung open, a hand grasping his ankle, and Patrick screamed as he was dragged out onto hot sand.

 

"Youngblood!" someone yelled. It might have been Joe - _After Life_.

 

_Youngblood. I'm Youngblood._

 

Hands everywhere. Plastic gloves, sharp claws, searching fingers. Youngblood caught sight of a mask - all white, black hair, pointed teeth, a painted mouth dripping blood - and screamed again.

 

He was twelve. They wouldn't kill kids, would they?

 

Antivenom yelled again, and the Dracs all laughed in sync, a horrifying, dry cackle.

 

Maybe they would.

 

A cold hand - how were they cold out in the Zones? - grabbed Youngblood's hair and pulled. He shrieked in pain, scrabbling to free himself, and his head was promptly slammed against the side of the van. The shock and pain made him gasp and slump, trying to gather his thoughts.

 

The hand pulled again, and Youngblood braced for it - pain, unconsciousness - curling into a ball as best he could.

 

He was dropped, spluttering out a half-shocked sob, as a red blur tackled three Dracs at once.

 

Afters instantly took the hint, scrambling to his feet and firing off shot after shot. White suits collapsed everywhere, one thudding to the ground by Youngblood's feet.

 

The red figure stood, giving a Drac a final, vicious kick in the head, and turned to face Youngblood.

 

It was a kid, barely older than they were, red hood pulled up over his head, long black hair sweeping down his face.

 

"You call yourselves zone runners?" he snarled, turning to stalk away.

 

"Wait," Youngblood gasped, trying to get to his feet. He promptly fell flat on his face.

 

"Youngblood!" Antivenom was there, helping him sit up.

 

The other boy was watching with amusement, consternation and no small amount of concern.

 

 _Fuck him_ , Youngblood decided.

 

"What do you want?" Afters hissed, clearly deciding much the same thing.

 

"I did just save his life," the boy retorted. "All your asses, actually."

 

"Yes, thank you," Antivenom said brusquely, wiping a trickle of blood off his cheek. "Why?"

 

"Because I fucking hate white suits," the boy spat. "What, you think I did this for the shits and giggles?"

 

Youngblood frowned, running a hand through his hair, and let out a little huff of bemusement when it came back red.

 

"Shit." The boy's anger was all but gone, and he began to inch closer when Afters turned away to see what was up. "You're not okay, dude. Come on, come sit down by the van."

 

And so Patrick found himself sitting by - leaning on - an infuriating, confusing, slightly attractive Zonie while Andy and Joe flapped around him.

 

"Seriously," the boy repeated, but without any bite this time. "You call yourself Zone runners?"

 

"Uh-huh."

 

"Come on, dude. You're a kid."

 

"I'm twelve," Patrick protested weakly. His head did kinda hurt. "They're both thirteen."

 

"Exactly."

 

"How old are you, then?"

 

"Fourteen. Can you even drive?"

 

"It's been a learning curve," Patrick said sagely, and felt the boy's shoulders shake as he collapsed into giggles. "What?"

 

Afters began wiping down the cut, and Youngblood hissed as it stung.

 

"Sorry, sorry. What happened?"

 

"A Drac slammed him against the van," the boy cut in before Youngblood could.

 

"And you saw this?" Afters clearly still didn't like him.

 

"Yeah, I was admiring the view," the boy snapped back. "What do you think, dude? I was running as fast as I could."

 

Awkward silence. Youngblood stared out into the desert, only just noticing a motorbike abandoned a couple of yards away from the battle.

 

"Standard," the boy offered suddenly.

 

"Is it?" Youngblood frowned. Sure, they'd only escaped Wind City a couple weeks ago, but this had been their first major dust-up. He hoped they weren't normal; if they were, he’d be dead for sure.

 

"No, I'm Standard. The Gold Standard."

 

_A desert name._

 

"Youngblood."

 

"Nice."

 

"Thanks. And thanks for, um, saving my life, I guess."

 

"Welcome." The silence they fell into was more comfortable this time. "You're from Wind City, right?"

 

Youngblood started up. Was he tracking them? Did he work for BL/Ind. "How did you-?"

 

"Relax! I saw your license plate."

 

"Oh." Youngblood sank down again, settling his head back on Standard's shoulder. It wasn't like he needed to; it was just really comfortable. "Yeah. I mean, where else?"

 

"Oh, you'll see." He could feel Standard's grin. "I am, too. Escaped when I was about your age."

 

"Pill age?"

 

"Pill age."

 

"How do you get by?"

 

"Used to be just me and my bike, but I've a feeling she's finally packed up. I was heading - well, there's talk of a huge gathering, loads of teams. The Idiots, Oasis, Teen Spirit."

 

"No way." Even Youngblood had heard of the American Idiots.

 

"Yes way. All trying to work together to take down BL/Ind."

 

"Were you trying to join them?"

 

"I was." Standard flashed a grin, and Youngblood swallowed. More than slightly attractive. "But I've been trying to find a crew, more than anything else."

 

"Um…"

 

"And if you could give me a lift to the nearest gas stop, I need to fix my bike so I can get out of your hair."

 

"No!" Youngblood insisted, maybe a little too forcefully. "No, you should stay with us. You saved us."

 

"I just happened to be riding by. I'm not, like, a hero."

 

"You are. Doesn't matter if you planned to be or not. You saved me."

 

"You're too adorable to die," Standard said blithely, apparently unaware of the way it made Youngblood blush and smile.

 

"Uh…"

 

“Plus, I’m real bad at minding my own business.”

 

“Well, I’m certainly glad you are.” Youngblood was vaguely aware of Afters and Antivenom holding their own conversation, the way they often did, but all he wanted to do was listen to Standard. He was calm, experienced – he could help them.

 

“Dude!” Antivenom shouted suddenly. “That your bike?”

 

“Yeah?” Standard sounded like he was waiting to be snapped at again.

 

“You okay if we chuck it in the van?”

 

Standard blinked at the friendly tone. “Go for it. She ain’t running for a while.”

 

Youngblood, after an exchange of strange facial expressions, caught what his friend was hinting and turned to Standard with a grin. “You riding back or shotgun?”

 

“What?”

 

Afters leaned over and extended a hand. “You need a crew; we need another brain. You in?”

 

Standard glanced at Youngblood, who tried not to look too happy or desperate. “I guess so.”

 

“You’re not going to the gathering?” Youngblood shot bolt upright again, but this time it was excitement. For some weird reason, he liked this arrogant, know-it-all, loud boy.

 

“Don’t think I need to.” Standard gave a shit-eating grin, and Youngblood knew he'd accepted. “What d’you call yourselves?”

 

“The Car Crash Hearts,” Antivenom said proudly.

 

“Well, then.” Standard stood, gently helping Youngblood to his feet and folding his arms. “Long live the Car Crash Hearts.”

 

\-----

 

A year later the Black Parade happened; the whole desert knew. They couldn’t avoid the reports, no matter how hard they tried.

 

Patrick couldn't help but be glad that Pete hadn't gone to join them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wind City is kind of a name for Chicago. For the van, picture the one in the Arms Race video.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope to see you soooon.


	4. The Black Parade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the Parade started out like any other.
> 
>  
> 
> Poison woke up in his pile of sheets that served as a bed, Kobra curled into his side. Jet and Cemetery were lying head to foot, with Ghoul squashed between them.
> 
>  
> 
> It was how Poison had woken up every day for the past two years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Okay, so this is a monster - more than 4000 words. Thanks, Vicky, for actually reading this, and I'm sorry it took so long to get up.
> 
> The year is 2021, Cemetery is 16, Poison and Jet are 15, Ghoul and Pony are 13, Kobra is 12.
> 
> Welcome to the Black Parade.

"This is big," Cyanide said proudly, squinting at the map. "This could be the biggest thing that's ever happened in this desert."

 

Dr Death Defying tugged on his bandana, tightening the knot. "Could be. If we don't fuck this up, it could be legendary."

 

Saint Jimmy shook his head. "I love you two, but you're fucking stupid."

 

Poison watched this discussion from the side lines, keeping one eye on the kids he and Jet were meant to be supervising. Ghoul and Kobra giggled as they wrestled in the sand.

 

It had been two years since Bert had led Gerard and Mikey Way to a hole in the city wall, where they'd become Party Poison and Kobra Kid. One year and eleven months since they'd stumbled on the Killjoys, led by their grandmother, of all people.

 

"Oasis?" Cyanide called the crew sulking on the fringes. "What do you think of this?"

 

Kobra shrank away as Wonderwall and Supernova sloped past, scurrying back to Poison's side. The pair had caught them on the edge of Killjoy territory and nearly killed them. Unlike Poison and Kobra, they made no secret of the fact they were brothers.

 

"It's okay," Poison whispered to him. His brother was only twelve, he reminded himself. Fuck BL/Ind for making them orphans, for throwing them into this dangerous world so young.

 

But Kobra was twelve. If they were still in the city, he'd be being evaluated, made to go on the pills. Bert had even sent word through that they were developing new ones; not just suppressants, but synthetic emotions. The company's control was growing.

 

"I think it looks like a fucking suicide mission," Wonderwall said flatly.

 

Jimmy rolled his eyes. "I knew you'd say that."

 

"You don't like it either."

 

"Don't see you offering any solutions, though," Jimmy snapped, glaring at the two brothers with immense dislike.

 

"Alright, shut up," Supernova grouched to Wonderwall.

 

"Don't fucking tell me to shut up!"

 

"Don't act like an arse, then." Their lilting accents made the words soft, almost attractive, but they were still said with venom.

 

"Gee?"

 

Poison jumped, automatically shushing Kobra, and glanced around to make sure no one had heard.

 

Ghoul didn't seem put out by Kobra's sudden departure; he was chasing Show Pony, Dr D's adopted kid, around the sand. They were shrieking at Ghoul about their new leggings, while Jet and Cemetery looked ready to intervene.

 

Show Pony, as the Doc had explained, didn't want to be a he or a she (Kobra had been more than a little confused). No, the Doc had told them with a proud grin, they'd just found one more way not to conform.

 

_I'm so proud of them, and let them be a lesson to you two. You be whoever the hell you want, do what the hell you want. Ain't nothing gonna stop you, and that's as it should be._

 

"Be careful, Kobra," Poison hissed, finally turning back to his brother. "No one knows our names, alright?"

 

"Don't let us end up like them," Kobra said instead, staring at the two Oasis brothers.

 

"Like what?" Poison asked more quietly.

 

"Like…them. Always fighting. I don't think they like each other at all."

 

"I don't think so, either."

 

"I don't want us to be like them," Kobra repeated, so forcefully that Poison looked at him in shock.

 

"We won't."

 

"How do you know?"

 

"Because I won't let us." Poison pulled Kobra into his lap, shifting as he felt sand working its way into his pants. "I promise."

 

That seemed to satisfy Kobra, and he nestled into Poison's arms as Ghoul finally tackled Pony to the ground, tickling them with a yell of triumph. Pony instantly squirmed away, dusting off their leggings and taking up a battle stance. The second Ghoul tried to pounce again, he was on the floor, looking like he had no idea what had hit him.

 

If Poison was to give him a hint, he’d say it had been one of Pony’s booted feet.

 

Meanwhile, the war council continued.

 

\-----

 

The day of the Parade started out like any other.

 

Poison woke up in his pile of sheets that served as a bed, Kobra curled into his side. Jet and Cemetery were lying head to foot, with Ghoul squashed between them.

 

It was how Poison had woken up every day for the past two years.

 

Outside, people were crowded around, all dressed in black, skull masks pushed onto the top of their head as they laughed, smiled, joked, made plans. Black pants, black mini-skirts, black T-shirts, black jackets, black shirts.

 

Black. The opposite of white.

 

_We are not like them._

 

"Morning, kid." Saint Jimmy greeted him, looking more pissed off than usual.

 

Poison sighed and just went for it. "What's happened?"

 

"Cyanide won't let us fight."

 

"Why not?" Poison quickly grabbed breakfast and sat next to him, scooping Power Pup into his mouth as Jimmy scowled into the desert.

 

"She wants us to hang back, pull people out if it goes shitside-up."

 

"It won't. She's been planning this for years."

 

"That's exactly what I said," Jimmy grumbled. "But no, I get to be leader of the evac team. That'll fucking go down in history, right?"

 

Poison snorted, scraping the last dredges of food from the can.

 

Around camp, the Parade was taking shape. Dark figures milled around; people from all kinds of crews, from all parts of the desert, all united. Poison had to admit it; his grandma had done a good job.

 

“Does she think I joined this for shits and giggles? I want to have a shot at BL/Ind as much as anyone else.”

 

“I think…” Poison began carefully. “She’s thought this through, and she’s giving everyone the best chance she can. You guys’re the youngest here – apart from us kids, anyway, and there’s no way in the desert we’re going.”

 

“We don’t need _protecting_.”

 

“No.” He finished the can and threw it onto the rubbish table. Later in the day, someone would scoop everything into their car and drive it to the nearest scrapheap. “But she’s our grandma, remember? Looking after people is what she does, and if she’s relying on you to pull people out when they need it, you better fucking be there.”

 

Jimmy sighed. “You know, kid? You actually talk sense, which is more than anyone else in this entire fucking desert.”

 

“Um. Thanks.”

 

“Welcome.”

 

They sat there for a while, watching the sun climb into the sky as the Killjoys prepared themselves. Kobra and Ghoul joined them, both perhaps a little clingier than usual, but Poison could deal with that, especially today of all days.

 

Mr Brightside wandered over, chewing slowly on what looked like a stale piece of bread. “Alright, Jimmy?”

 

“Shiny.”

 

“Oh, fuck.” Brightside screwed his nose up. “What is it, 2010? Did that actually just come out of your mouth?”

 

“That was ironic.”

 

“I sure as shit hope so.”

 

Poison listened quietly. He didn’t know too much about Brightside and his crew, the Killers, but he could see they were among the youngest in Cyanide’s large, mismatched group of fighters. Jimmy liked him, and that was about as hard to achieve as storming Battery City in Poison’s eyes.

 

“Poison?” Ghoul’s voice made him jump; he’d forgotten about the two kids tucked into his side, one under each arm. “Will it be dangerous?”

 

“What?”

 

“The Parade.”

 

Poison looked desperately at Jimmy.

 

“A bit,” Jimmy replied thoughtfully. “But everything’s dangerous out here, ain’t it? It’s the choice we make, and we do have a choice – that’s the important thing.”

 

Ghoul thankfully looked convinced, snuggling under Poison’s arm again as the Oasis crew stormed past.

 

“Landslide, you were meant to sort this out!”

 

“Fuck you, Wonderwall.”

 

“Oh, will both of you shut the fuck up?” Supernova grumbled. “We have time, alright? Wonderwall, stop being so anal about everything.”

 

“Problem, boys?” Dr Death marched up to them, eyebrows raised.

 

“No, sir.”

 

If there was anyone you couldn’t not respect, it was the Doc. He was a legend in the Zones, almost more than Cyanide.

 

“Well, whatever you got goin’, sort it out. Today of all days, I need you watchin’ each other’s backs.”

 

“Yes, Doc.” Wonderwall and Supernova glared at each other as he walked off, clearly with better things to do.

 

“Poison?”

 

“Yeah, Kobra?”

 

“Never like them, remember?”

 

“I remember.” Poison watched as Wonderwall rolled his eyes in disgust at his brother and stalked away. “And I promise, kiddo. Never like them.”

 

\-----

 

“Killjoys!” Cyanide bellowed, and the entire gathering fell silent as quickly as if someone had flipped a switch. They were all standing in the huge warehouse, out of the afternoon sun. It was getting late; soon the Killjoys would be moving out.

 

Poison briefly locked eyes with the leader of the Teen Spirit crew, who gave him a cocky wink and a grin before turning back to face Cyanide.

 

“Well.” Cyanide gave a shrug. “This is it.”

 

An appreciative murmur ran through the crowd.

 

“I know this wasn’t easy, and I want to thank you all for your cooperation – or, at the very least, restraint and tolerance. I’m impressed everyone’s still alive.”

 

Saint Jimmy snorted quietly, and Poison and Jet had to bite on their fingers to stop themselves laughing.

 

“This is the biggest thing that’s ever happened in this desert,” Cyanide continued. “It could be the beginning of the end of BL/Ind and their control. We can make our future, the way we want it!”

 

Someone cheered at the back of the room, and suddenly everyone followed suit, whooping and yelling, stomping the ground. Poison laughed as he felt energy, excitement, anticipation course through him. This was living.

 

“Okay!” Cyanide tried to quiet them, but she was grinning. “Remember that. It may seem like a small victory, but it’ll be the start of something so much bigger. We will resist them, and others will follow. We will begin the movement, and someday, someone will finish it. Someone will take down that company.”

 

Dr Death was standing to her left, nodding at everything she said. Even Wonderwall and Supernova looked faintly impressed.

 

“Everyone know what they’re doing?”

 

A rumble of affirmatives.

 

“Good. Now, as I’m sure you know, we’re leaving our kids behind.”

 

“With no one to look after them!” someone shouted. Poison thought it was one of the Misfits.

 

“Not quite,” Cyanide said easily, beckoning to Poison. He took a few steps forward, unsure what she wanted. “I’m leaving Party Poison in charge until we get back.”

 

Poison started. “What?”

 

“He’s a good kid, as you all know, and more than capable of keeping things in order for a few hours.”

 

Jimmy and Dr D nodded in approval. Poison froze in shock.

 

“So, our aims, Killjoys. We’re heading out to Six. It’s the furthest out, the hardest for BL/Ind to control. If we can get the routes, Guano, the Getaway Mile, we can control the trade up there. It would be a blow to them, and a huge win for us.”

 

“We’re just looking to take Six?” Mr Brightside questioned mildly.

 

“One step at a time.”

 

Brightside shared nods with the rest of the Killers. “Sensible.”

 

“Alright?” Cyanide scanned the room for any more questions, but everyone was nodding, shifting, ready to get going. “Awesome. Let’s hit the road, Killjoys!”

 

Poison caught Cemetery’s gaze, expecting resentment or judgment. All he got was encouragement and acceptance. _Fuck_.

 

“Jet!” He tried to push through the rolling mass of people to Jet Star, expecting much the same. “Jet, I’m sorry, I had no idea. You don’t have to follow me if you don’t wanna. I know I’m not your leader…”

 

“Breathe, man.” Jet put his hands on Poison’s shoulders, warm, heavy, comforting, grounding. “You are. We will follow you, because we trust you. Got it?”

 

Ghoul and Kobra appeared, grinning like idiots, while Pony was whooping at the top of their lungs. Cemetery found his way to them, nodding appreciatively.

 

Jimmy roared something from his Mercury Monterey, sounding the horn, and everyone replied. They swarmed around the cars, climbing in wherever there was room. The Killers clambered into the bed of Dr Death’s blue truck, while the Doc himself revved the engine. Cyanide crouched, proud, confident, on the roof of the Idiots’ Monterey, and gestured for everyone to move forward.

 

Poison caught his breath. They were on the edge of something huge here. No one had ever stood up to BL/Ind the way the Killjoys were about to.

 

The smell of gas hung in the afternoon air, cloying his senses. Ghoul had clambered up Cemetery’s back to get a better view, and Poison let Kobra do the same. Pony’s arms were all over Jet’s hair as they tried to stay on while waving goodbye with their free hand.

 

With horns blaring and engines growling, the Black Parade snaked into the desert.

 

\-----

 

Poison sighed again, leaning back as he sat on the steps outside the main hut and digging his bare toes into the sand. It was well past nightfall; at a guess, from the stars, he’d say it was gone midnight. He’d been sitting here since the huge dust cloud had disappeared into the dying sun, and there was still no word from anybody.

 

Cemetery sank next to him, clearly exhausted after chasing the three kids around to get them into bed. “Anything?”

 

“Not a peep,” Poison replied.

 

Jet appeared, heaving a sigh that quickly turned into a yawn. “Should they be taking this long?”

 

“I don’t know,” Poison answered honestly. “I don’t know if I should be worried, or…”

 

“I don’t think everyone’s going to make it out,” Cemetery said suddenly, and Jet turned to him with an intense _what-the-everloving-fuck_ expression. “Come on, be realistic, guys. This isn’t some dust-up or scrape with a patrol, or a little raid on an outpost in the ass end of nowhere. It’s deliberate, planned – and fucking _huge_. Someone’s gotta get caught out.”

 

“The desert can be a dangerous place,” Jet mused. “You never know when you’ll bite it, you know?”

 

“Can I tell you something?” Cemetery spoke so quietly that Poison almost didn’t hear him, focused on the horizon as he was.

 

“Shoot, man.”

 

“Can I tell you my name?”

 

Poison froze in shock. “Are you allowed? Isn’t it dangerous?”

 

“I dunno. Are there, like, rules and shit? Who says I can’t?” Cemetery shrugged. “But, me and Jet were just talking before – that’s why we’re in a weird mood – and wouldn’t it be a shame to die with no one knowing who you really were?”

 

“No one’s going to die,” Poison snapped, so ferociously that they both turned to him in surprise. “Okay? I won’t let it happen.”

 

“Okay, well…” Cemetery’s hands grasped the air for a second, like he was trying to find the words. “How about…I trust you. Okay? It’s a sign of trust, a kind of exchange.”

 

“I like that better,” Jet agreed cautiously. “You wanna start?”

 

“Okay.” Cemetery took a breath, looking uncertain for the first time since Poison had met him. “I’m…I’m Bob.”

 

“Bob,” Jet echoed. “Nice to meet you, Bob. I’m Ray.”

 

“Ray,” Poison smiled. “And Bob. They suit you, guys.” A beat of silence, and he realised they were both looking at him expectantly. _Oh shit, oh shit_. He hadn’t been Gerard for two years, except to Mikey, and Cyanide when she was _really_ pissed off. But his friends had trusted him, and he needed to trust them. “I’m, um…I’m…Gerard.”

 

“Gerard.” Bob tried it out. “It’s weird, but good-weird. Suits you.”

 

“Gerard, Bob and Ray.” Ray tilted his head, making his curls bounce. “Not as cool as Jet Star, Cemetery and Party Poison.”

 

“No. But nicer.” Poison blinked up at the stars, letting himself relax. He felt…freer, somehow. “So was that, like, a realisation of mortality, or some shit?”

 

“Nah.” Jet smirked. “Just us tryna distract you.”

 

Poison spluttered into laugher. He couldn’t help it.

 

“Hey.” Cemetery patted him on the shoulder, insistent, frantic. “Hey. Dust cloud.”

 

“Where?” Poison’s head shot up, squinting across the desert. There it was, straight in front of them, and somehow not as big as he’d expected. “Shit, okay.”

 

“It’ll be okay.” Even Jet didn’t sound like he believed it.

 

The convoy drew closer. Definitely too small.

 

“Oh…”

 

There was a flash of blue. Not BL/Ind, then.

 

“That’s the Doc’s van,” Cemetery muttered.

 

“That can’t be it.” Poison tried to make himself breathe. “Where’s everyone else? They must be coming.”

 

Sand-blasted metal.

 

“And the Idiots.” Jet peered at the approaching cloud. “That’s all I can see…”

 

Poison felt his legs tremble underneath him; he hadn’t even realised he was standing. Something pounded in his head, throbbing along his temple, and his ears roared. He felt sick, but he’d eaten nothing since breakfast; there was nothing to bring back up.

 

The two cars rolled to a stop and cut out. Nothing moved.

 

Jet started forward. “Should we-?”

 

Before Poison had to actually make a coherent decision, the van door swung open and Mr Brightside climbed out, feet heavy, clothes scorched and dusty.

 

“Brightside,” Cemetery murmured. “What happened, man? Where’s everyone else?”

 

“This is it.” Brightside sounded like he’d been gargling sand.

 

“But your team?”

 

“Gone.”

 

“Cyanide,” Poison gasped out, trying to squash the rising panic before it squashed him. “What about Cyanide?”

 

Brightside shook his head. “I’m sorry, kid. This is us. Me, the Idiots, and Dr Death.”

 

“But Oasis,” Jet croaked, leaning into Poison so he could feel his friend trembling. “Teen Spirit, the Misfits, the Ramones.”

 

“Gone,” Brightside repeated flatly.

 

Jesus of Suburbia slid out of the backseat of the Mercury, looking ten years older than he had that afternoon. “I’m sorry, kid. We did our best. There were too many of BL/Ind’s people – they were like fucking vampires, they were everywhere. We tried.”

 

“I know,” Poison managed, because he did, he knew they’d have done everything they could, and he’d expected to lose some people, but he never thought they’d almost lose _everyone_ , and-

 

Cemetery held him up when his legs threatened to give out.

 

“Jimmy? Letterbomb?”

 

“Give ‘em a minute,” Jesus said quietly, and turned to help Brightside pull something out of the back of the van.

 

It was a thing, because it couldn’t be a man, and it certainly couldn’t be Dr Death Defying, so still and lifeless, limp, as Jesus pulled a shitty little wheelchair from somewhere in the van and gently lowered the thing into it.

 

Letterbomb flung the shotgun door open, tugging on Saint Jimmy’s arm. Jimmy didn’t move.

 

"What can we do?" Jet asked quietly, and Poison blinked.

 

They were all looking to him. He was in charge. _Oh, do not fuck up…_

 

"Cemetery, keep the kids away. Pony especially, and I don't want Kobra seeing this either. Ghoul if you can, but I know he'll be tricky."

 

Cemetery nodded and slipped away.

 

"Jet, you know first aid."

 

"Yup."

 

"Do what you can."

 

Jet jogged after Jesus, catching up and starting to inspect the Doctor as Jesus carefully wheeled him into a hut. Mr Brightside limped after them.

 

Poison let himself breathe, leaning on the Monterey. _All dead, all gone, never coming home…_

 

"Jimmy." Letterbomb was still trying to get his friend to move from the driver’s seat. "You need to get out, man, c'mon."

 

"They're all gone." Jimmy sounded hoarse, broken. "They're gone, Mike. I tried to help them, I tried…"

 

"I know you did, I know, man. It wasn't your fault; it was BL/Ind."

 

"All dead." Jimmy sucked in a shuddering breath, and then collapsed into sobs, leaning into Letterbomb's chest. "They're _dead_ , Mike."

 

"Billie," Letterbomb whispered. "Billie, Billie, it's okay. The kids are safe. They didn’t follow us.”

 

“I nearly lost you, as well.” Jimmy took a shuddering breath. “And Jesus, and it was so-“

 

“Sh, sh.” Letterbomb looked up at Poison, still leaning against the car’s roof, and sighed. He looked so miserable that Poison wanted to fold him into a hug. He wanted to cry, to _scream_ in anger and frustration and grief.

 

Mikey was everything he had now.

 

Except that wasn’t true. He had Ghoul, Jet, Cemetery. He still had a family.

 

Letterbomb smiled sadly. “It’s your gig now, kid. Do it right.”

 

\-----

 

“Poison. Poison. Poison!”

 

“F’ck’ff,” Poison grunted, waving his arm in the general direction of the noise. “I’ll be up in a min’te.”

 

“Poison, Jet says D’s waking up.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You heard me.” Cemetery sounded exhausted. “And you’re gonna hurt yourself sleeping there, man. It ain’t good for your neck.”

 

“How’s he lookin’?” Poison somehow managed to roll to his feet, wincing as his neck protested.

 

“Jet’s a little worried about his back. Looks like he got blasted in the spine, and Jet’s not sure if there’s any nerve damage or shit.”

 

“Fuck,” Poison muttered. “Uh, how’s everyone else?” His eyes felt sticky and dry; he’d been crying. He remembered why, and it was like a punch to his stomach. Cyanide, the Killers, the Misfits, Teen Spirit, the Ramones, Oasis…

 

Gone.

 

“Brightside’s not looking too hot, either,” Cemetery said heavily. “He’s not hurt, he’s just kinda…lost.”

 

“Kobra? Ghoul? Pony? They alright?”

 

“No one’s _alright_ , Poison. You need to speak to Kobra, too.”

 

“After I’ve seen the Doc.”

 

“Poison, he’s your brother. He _needs_ you-“

 

“I need to know what happened.”

 

“He ain’t saying, Poison. And please don’t ask him. I think it’s too close, too painful.”

 

Poison tried to reconcile that with his own need for answers. Cemetery shot him a pleading glance as they stopped outside the hut.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Thank you. I need to stay with Ghoul, he’s really shaken up.”

 

“Okay.” Poison managed a weak smile and stepped inside, sighing as the morning sun stopped beating his back.

 

There were two beds that Jet had obviously quickly covered in sheets. Mr Brightside was sitting on one, legs dangling and swinging, staring at something no one else could see. He looked shattered, Poison thought, and then imagined himself losing his friends. _Nothing would be worse._

 

Jet was standing next to the other bed, hunched over, clearly exhausted. Dr D was sitting up, and he looked like he was less than impressed.

 

“…don’t see why I’m still here, Jet Star. I’m fit as a Juvie, so let me outta this goddamn bed.”

 

“I just need to make sure everything’s shiny, Doc. Can’t be too careful out here.” Jet even sounded wrecked.

 

“Party Poison!” Dr Death looked as relieved as if Battery City had fallen down. “Tell him to let me up.”

 

“Just humour him, Doc,” Poison suggested wearily, leaning in to whisper, “He needs to let it out of his system.”

 

Jet thankfully understood that it wasn’t meant seriously and smiled gratefully as Poison leaned back and Dr D stopped fidgeting.

 

“So, what in the shit are you doing to me, kid?”

 

“Will you let me?” Jet sounded like he wanted to get started about as much as Dr D wanted him to, and Poison briefly leaned into him. He felt Jet relax, just for a minute, and everything felt better.

 

“Just do it.”

 

“Okay, Doc,” Jet said carefully. “I’m gonna poke you. Tell me if it hurts.”

 

“Fine,” D grumbled.

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

“Well, get the fuck on with it! I thought you were meant to be the doctor here.”

 

“I am, D.” Jet sounded choked, and Poison could see in his eyes the faint shadow of fear slowly becoming reality. “I’m pressing on your legs.”

 

“Well, you clearly ain’t, ‘cause I ain’t feelin’ it.”

 

Jet didn’t reply.

 

“Tell me, boy.” Dr D suddenly sounded gentle, and both Poison and Jet looked back at him. “It’s okay.”

 

“Your – your spine, Doc,” Jet sniffled. “The shot caught it near the base. If you can’t feel it – I’m so sorry, I-“

 

“What you apologising for?” D rapped himself on the thigh. “It weren’t you, were it? It were those white sons-a-bitches. Send Pony in, will ya?”

 

Poison nodded. “I’ll get them,” he practically squeaked, and sprinted out, past the still-frozen Brightside and into the sunlight. His breath came in gasps – or was it sobs? – until he was almost retching, sinking to his knees in the middle of the camp.

 

_“Fuck!”_

 

It was hardly even a word, just a scream of rage into the sky. How could they? How much could BL/Ind take from them? Jet hadn’t said it, but Poison could guess; Dr Death Defying would never walk again.

 

“We should have been there,” he whispered to himself, curling over his chest. His grandmother, the only adult in his family who’d ever understood him, who hadn’t blindly followed her life like they’d tried to make her. She was gone.

 

“Poison?”

 

He looked up, jumping slightly. “Pony. Hey.”

 

“You’re not okay.” The kid wrapped their arms around Poison’s neck, hugging tight. “Why did this happen?”

 

“I don’t know, kiddo.” Poison sighed and hugged them back. “Um, I was meant to find you. The Doc needs you.”

 

“Is he okay?” Pony jumped to their feet.

 

“Yeah, no, he’s fine, I guess – um.”

 

From the look on Show Pony’s face, Poison hadn’t made it any clearer for them. “So…?”

 

“He’s gonna be okay, Pony. He wants to see you.”

 

Pony practically sagged with relief, and they turned and raced away. Poison smiled.

 

“Poison?”

 

Second time he’d jumped in about five minutes.

 

“Kobra,” Poison sighed, and let his brother fall into his arms.

 

They stayed like that for what seemed like forever.

 

“She’s gone,” Kobra whispered.

 

“I know.”

 

“What do we do now?”

 

Poison sighed, hugging his little brother even tighter. “We’ll carry on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry
> 
> Also, non-binary Show Pony for the win


	5. In Which Fun Ghoul Makes an Almost-Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay.” Letterbomb sagged. Poison was smart, smarter than he was often credited for in the generation of fucking child prodigies that seemed to be ruling the zones now. “Yes. We are leaving.”
> 
>  
> 
> “What the fuck!”
> 
>  
> 
> “Come on, kid. We need out.”
> 
>  
> 
> “I need you here,” Poison hissed, looking absolutely livid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry this has been so long, life has been crazy. School just needs to sit the fuck down, seriously.
> 
> Vicky betaed this, but it was so long ago that she probably can't remember. Thanks anyway.
> 
> Enjoy.

"Good, kid, that's good." Letterbomb smiled as Ghoul practically glowed with pride and carried on wiring the dummy bomb. "Oh, be careful with those two - never mind, you got it, you're good."

 

"How big will this one be?" Ghoul asked chirpily, squinting down at his pliers.

 

"Pretty big. Which is why it's a dummy."

 

"Cool."

 

"Glad you're taking to this, kid." Letterbomb grinned. "You'll need this for after…"

 

"After what?"

 

Letterbomb glanced up and caught sight of Poison lounging a short distance away. He looked casual, but there was something in the tension of his shoulders that said he was listening. "Uh, nothing. How you getting on?"

 

"Nearly there." Ghoul, thank the Sun, was as happily oblivious as ever.

 

"Looking good."

 

A few moments of easy silence.

 

"Letterbomb?"

 

"Yeah, kid?"

 

"What do your names mean?"

 

"Like what?"

 

"Like, what's American? What does Saint mean? And Jesus sounds like an actual name, like Jimmy, but is it actually? And-"

 

"Woah, slow down!" Letterbomb laughed. "Lemme start with the easy one. Um, American means to do with America."

 

"Uh-huh, and what the fuck is that?" It was so easy to forget Ghoul was only thirteen.

 

"America was…oh, man, D knows way more about this. Back before the war, before everything burned, this whole huge piece of land was the country of America. People lived all over it."

 

"So we're all, what, American?"

 

"Pretty much."

 

"Cool. We're not all idiots, though."

 

"Nope, that's just us." Ghoul sniggered, and Letterbomb rolled his eyes. "That's not what I _meant_."

 

Ghoul was shaking, trying to contain himself, still fiddling with the wires. "What's Saint mean, then?"

 

"Okay, this might take a bit longer." Letterbomb frowned, trying to remember what Dr Death had taught him. It seemed a lifetime away. "Um. Right. So, you know how people believe in things that might be real, but might not be?"

 

"Like…" Ghoul absently began chewing his pliers as he thought. "The Phoenix Witch?"

 

"Exactly. Or maybe Destroya. That sorta thing. Anyway, way before us - going back even before America, I guess - people used to believe in a thing called God."

 

"Did it not exist, then?"

 

"What?"

 

"You said they used to." Yep, Ghoul was sharp, smart, way above where a thirteen-year-old should probably be. Kobra's brain, thinking about it, was terrifying; this entire group were so much older than their years. "So what happened?"

 

"BL/Ind did a pretty good job of stamping belief out. You got the drugs, you don't need something else, right? And I think the Wars were so bad, so destructive, that people lost faith."

 

"Saint?" Ghoul prodded.

 

"Oh, yeah." _I knew there was a point to this_. "Saints were, like, people who did what they thought God told them to, which was good things. Saints did good things. They were good people."

 

"Like Jimmy," Ghoul said matter-of-factly. "He's a good person."

 

Letterbomb felt his face break into a real smile. "He is. I just wish he knew it."

 

"What about Jesus?"

 

"Stick with the God thing for this, yeah? So God was, uh, not there, but people used to believe he sent this guy called Jesus to help him be there."

 

"So Jesus was a good person too."

 

"Yep. And I guess he still is."

 

Ghoul pondered that for a moment. "Wow."

 

"Yeah. How's that bomb looking?"

 

"Like it could do some damage."

 

"Yeah," Letterbomb muttered, checking the connections. All perfect. "Thank fuck it's not live."

 

"Is it okay?"

 

"Spot on, kiddo. Well done. Go show Jet, he'll be dead impressed."

 

Ghoul beamed and darted away, dangling the mess of wires precariously from one hand. Letterbomb laughed and leaned back to enjoy the shade.

 

"Letterbomb."

 

Letterbomb glanced up to see Poison standing in front of him, arms folded, looking pissed. “What?”

 

“You’re leaving.”

 

“Huh?” Letterbomb frowned; that had thrown him. “What – why do you think so?”

 

“You’ve got Ghoul making bombs, Kobra building signal jammers, you’re teaching Jet how to shoot as well as medical shit, Jesus is teaching Cemetery hand-to-hand – I mean, shit, Pony is rollerblading down Guano, and it sure as shit weren’t me that taught them. What else do I need?”

 

“Okay.” Letterbomb sagged. Poison was smart, smarter than he was often credited for in the generation of fucking child prodigies that seemed to be ruling the zones now. “Yes. We are leaving.”

 

“What the fuck!”

 

“Come on, kid. We need out.”

 

“I need you _here_ ,” Poison hissed, looking absolutely livid. His black hair was stark against his face, white with rage, and his eyes were bottomless. Fuck, this kid was scary. “Brightside’s going as well. You can’t just leave me with three kids, two guys the same age as me who seem to do anything I say, and a dude in a wheelchair!”

 

“If we could stay, we would, man.”

 

“What’s so fucking important?”

 

Letterbomb chewed his lip, debating how much he should say. If Poison knew, Kobra almost certainly would, and it could be around the group in no time. “Jimmy needs help.”

 

Poison stopped.

 

“He’s not doing okay, kid. You know he’s not, and Jesus and I just wanna take him out of the Zones, maybe even to the neutral bit beyond Six. He needs time. I’m not saying we’re never coming back, but I’m not saying we will.”

 

“None of us are okay, man,” Poison retorted, but his bite was gone. “I lost my grandmother. D lost his _legs_. Jimmy can’t have the monopoly on fucked up here. We’ve all lost something, someone, to this Parade.”

 

“But we were there.”

 

“Yes. All of you. So why is it only Jimmy who-?”

 

“You seen Brightside lately?” When Poison paused, Letterbomb ploughed forward. “You should get this, kid. It’s a leader thing. When you’re in charge of people, responsible for them, you feel everything so much worse. We’ve had to bury – not even bury – so many friends, good people. What happened was plain fucking wrong.”

 

“But…” All Poison’s anger had definitely left him. He just looked like a lost kid again. “I need you. I can’t – how the fuck am I meant to do this?”

 

“Like you always have. You lead, they’ll follow.”

 

“We’re all fucking kids, man.” Poison sagged, defeated, and stumbled over to sit next to Letterbomb. “I’m fifteen. _Fifteen_. Same with Jet. Cemetery’s sixteen. Kobra’s twelve, Ghoul’s thirteen. So’s Pony. _This_ is wrong, kids being left to fend for themselves.”

 

“’S’all part of the same wrong, kiddo.”

 

Poison sighed. “I know. I know. Just…please come back. You’re some of the only family I have left now.”

 

“So you’re learning.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Letterbomb ruffled the kid’s hair. “One thing you learn in the desert: family goes deeper than blood. You remember that, and you’ll be shiny your whole life.”

 

“Ew, shiny? What the fuck is this, 2010?”

 

“Fucker.” Letterbomb let himself laugh as Poison did. “I was tryna sound wise and shit. Now I just sound like an outdated old-timer.”

 

“Either one makes you sound old, old man.”

 

“Little shit.”

 

Shit was going to be different in the Zones. He could see it coming. Kids like Poison were rising up, finding themselves, making a name. The idea of factions was spreading, small groups with similar ideas and ways of life banding together. There was more organised opposition in the desert. After the shitshow that had been the Parade, BL/Ind would be cracking down harder, but, just as importantly, these kids would be ready. Maybe Letterbomb was old – not by city standards, but definitely for a Zonie. It didn’t matter; there was still going to be a fight, and a fucking good one too.


	6. A Teenage Vow in a Parking Lot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poison crept closer to the outpost, watching as the cars' windscreens glinted when he moved, reflecting the stars. He wanted one, and he was going to have one. He was so fucking sick of that shitty van, the only car to come back from the Black Parade apart from the American Idiots' Mercury Monterey.
> 
>  
> 
> The Idiots were gone. Poison screwed his face up and focused back on the job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Looks like this story is back on track too. Thanks Tor for putting up with my endless 'wait did I send you this one?' and I probably sent it to you about three times. You have the patience of a saint.
> 
> The year is 2023, two years after the Black Parade, and two groups of Zonies are about to meet for the first time.

Poison crept closer to the outpost, watching as the cars' windscreens glinted when he moved, reflecting the stars. He wanted one, and he was going to have one. He was so fucking sick of that shitty van, the only car to come back from the Black Parade apart from the American Idiots' Mercury Monterey.

 

The Idiots were gone. Poison screwed his face up and focused back on the job.

 

He could see Kobra slipping towards the door, almost invisible in the dark. Poison hated sending him in alone, but he was the cleverest with tech out of the five of them. Cutting the circuits was their best shot, but of course the fucking breaker box had to be right by the door.

 

Kobra held up one hand, counting down on his fingers.

 

_…four, three, two, one._

 

The lights inside the building flickered once and went out.

 

"Time to go," Ghoul hummed at Poison's shoulder.

 

"Wait," Jet hissed. "There's someone coming."

 

Poison squinted into the dusk, eyes still adjusting. As he watched, he saw a black figure steal up to Kobra, who hadn't moved from where he was crouched against the wall. Poison blinked, and the shape was gone. So was his brother.

 

"Shit," he breathed. "Shit, fuck. _Fuck_."

 

"Poison," Cemetery growled warningly. "Don't go rushing in."

 

Poison bared his teeth, but he knew his friend was right.

 

"Slowly," Ghoul agreed.

 

Cemetery crawled forwards, using the cars as cover. Nothing had come out of the building yet, so Poison could only hope that Kobra had managed to disable the doors as well.

 

He followed, keeping one hand locked in Ghoul's. _Please let Kobra be alright, please let him be safe…_

 

Jet was the first to reach the wall, squinting at the scuffled marks in the sand and letting his eyes follow the footprints around the side of the building.

 

"Stay _quiet_ ," Cemetery mouthed. "I mean it."

 

Poison rolled his eyes to show he'd got the message.

 

Voices carried around the corner.

 

"We came here to get a car, Standard. Not pick a fight."

 

"Quiet, Youngblood! There might be more of them."

 

There was a muffled noise of affirmation that sounded like Kobra.

 

"You see? Let him go, and we might not die!"

 

"Sh, kid. We'll wait for the others to get back…" The speaker trailed off as Jet and Poison slipped out from their cover. "Guys, there you are. What did you - oh."

 

Poison growled.

 

Kobra was being held by a kid with a long black fringe, who had one hand clamped over Kobra's mouth while the other held a ray gun to his head. The other kid looked younger, with long ginger hair and a floppy hat. They all froze as Poison glared, although Kobra looked more pissed than afraid.

 

"Fucking let go of him right now," Poison hissed.

 

No one moved.

 

"I'd listen, if I were you," Ghoul warned, and suddenly there were two more people at Poison's shoulder.

 

"Oh, yeah?" The black-haired kid slowly grew a shit-eating grin. Kobra rolled his eyes. "What you gonna do?"

 

"You don't wanna know," Cemetery said flatly, and the ginger boy glared at his friend warningly.

 

"Standard, let him go."

 

"What, so it's four versus five?" Standard looked like he was enjoying himself way too much.

 

"Four?" Jet asked.

 

Two more figures appeared, one as heavily built as Cemetery, one with hair as wild as Jet's.

 

"Took you long enough," the ginger kid muttered. "Standard's gonna get us all killed."

 

"I am not! We were here first! We get first pick of the cars. Who the fuck do they think they are, anyway?"

 

"We're the Killjoys," Poison said simply, and the four kids looked like the desert had just frozen over and it had started to snow.

 

"Shit," the afro boy mumbled. "Shit, shit, fuck."

 

"You're lying," Standard tried, but he held Kobra s little tighter. "The Killjoys were an idea, and they failed. They died, more than a year ago."

 

"We fucking know," Ghoul snarled, practically quivering with anger. "You think they didn't leave kids behind?"

 

No answer.

 

"Let go of my - teammate," Poison said. "I won't ask again."

 

Standard looked like he was considering his options, but slowly released Kobra. Instantly, Poison grabbed his brother and pulled him away, keeping one hand on his arm.

 

"Just curious," Standard said easily, not backing away like the rest of his team. "Is this what you've come to now?"

 

"What?"

 

"Standard!" the ginger boy hissed warningly.

 

"Stealing cars. I thought Killjoys were meant to be glorious, leaders of the revolution, all that shit. What happened?"

 

Poison stared him down. "As if you just-"

 

"Actually, I'll tell you what happened." Standard pushed his long fringe out of his eyes, shooting a challenging glare at them. "You all died."

 

Poison didn't know if it was him or Ghoul who charged first, but he could hear Kobra and Jet yelling for them, Cemetery giving a roar of pure frustration.

 

Together, they ploughed into Standard, knocking him into the ground. They were on top of him for barely a second before Poison felt himself flying, thrown through the air.

 

He landed on his back with a gasp, while the heavily-built (and well-tattooed) kid bent to pluck Ghoul off his friend.

 

Cemetery snapped. Out of all of them, he (as he put it) hated Ghoul the least. What Poison knew he meant was he was deeply protective of the kid.

 

Jet helped Poison to his feet, fussing and scolding at the same time. The remaining kids hung back, not looking especially eager to take on Cemetery. Ghoul rolled away and straight to his feet, teeth bared.

 

Standard climbed to his feet, dusting himself off, before suddenly freezing. "Shit."

 

Poison glanced towards the building door, suddenly open, light flooding out into the makeshift parking lot.

 

Kobra and Jet pulled out their guns.

 

"Don't start a fight unless we have to." Poison glared at them, checking behind to make sure Cemetery was done. " _Quiet_."

 

They did what they were told, because otherwise what was the point of having a leader?

 

One Drac poked its head around the corner, and Jet hit it straight in the head.

 

"One means there's more," Poison said grimly, glancing back at the four others. They all looked absolutely terrified.

 

_Fantastic. Amateurs._

 

Not that he wasn't _extremely_ pissed off at them, especially Standard and his stupid fucking fringe, but he didn't want them to die.

 

There was a beat of heavy silence, and then an entire squad erupted around the building. Poison took a deep breath, bracing himself for the hit.

 

It was like being underwater; he couldn't move, it was hard to breathe, white everywhere.

 

The four kids were fighting hand-to-hand, and not doing too badly, either. Dracs lay everywhere, dead or just knocked out.

 

Poison stopped to take a breath, trying to find his friends. Cemetery was protecting Ghoul's back. Jet was picking Dracs off left, right and centre. Kobra - fuck, where was Kobra?

 

He finally spotted him, pinned to the ground by a white suit. Poison started to run, already knowing he'd be too late, he couldn't do this, he _couldn't lose Mikey-_

 

A black shape barrelled into the Drac, pulling it away. Kobra rolled away, chest heaving, and Poison slid to his knees beside him.

 

"Are you alright?"

 

"Fine, I-" Kobra broke off and fired at something over Poison's shoulder. Something heavy slumped into the dirt behind them.

 

Standard finished wrestling with the Drac he'd pulled off Kobra and wandered over nonchalantly. "Should be more careful, really."

 

"You just saved him," Poison said flatly. "You - why?"

 

"He's too cute to die." Standard replied with a wink.

 

Poison stood up, very deliberately, and punched him in the jaw, only just hard enough to hurt.

 

_"Ouch."_

 

"But still, thank you."

 

"Um, you're welcome?"

 

Ghoul floored the last Drac. The outpost was quiet. Poison put his arm around Kobra's shoulders as they walked back to their team.

 

"Well, that was fun," Cemetery grumbled.

 

"Let's just get what we came for," Poison sighed. "Hey, you guys?"

 

Standard and his team perked up slightly, if still looking apprehensive.

 

"You wanted a car, right?"

 

They nodded, heads comically in sync.

 

"Take your pick."

 

They all grinned, disappearing, while the ginger one sidled up to Kobra. "I'm really sorry."

 

"It's fine." Knowing Kobra, he was already over it.

 

"I'm Youngblood."

 

"Hey, Youngblood!" Standard yelled. "This one, man, it's fucking perfect!"

 

Poison drifted down the line of cars. It was hard to see them - they were all black, and the moon was nowhere near full - but he could see that BL/Ind had awesome taste in vehicles.

 

"This one." Ghoul's voice was quiet, but he meant what he was saying. "Firebird Trans Am. 1978, it looks like. I love it."

 

"I'm driving," Poison said quickly. "What have those four got?"

 

"'67 Chevelle," Kobra offered, hovering by Poison’s shoulder. “What do we do? Make friends?”

 

“They held a gun to your head.”

 

“He saved my life.”

 

“That doesn’t mean I’m not annoyed.”

 

“I would be dead,” Kobra retorted, with the air of someone trying to explain something to a thick child. “At least pretend you’re grateful.”

 

“I am grateful. I’m just pissed they held a gun to your head.”

 

Kobra rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and Poison massaged his forehead. They were too young for this, all of them. Youngblood looked no older than Kobra or Ghoul. What had happened in the world for nine teenagers to have to live like this?

 

“Okay.” He interrupted the four. “Your names?”

 

Standard and Youngblood he knew. The huge one, with a surprisingly calm voice, said his name was Antivenom, while the one with the Jet-esque hair was the After Life.

 

“And we’re the Car Crash Hearts,” Standard finished. Poison decided he was in charge; everyone else seemed to look to him to take the lead.

 

“Where do you stay?”

 

“Uh…” Standard frowned. “Nowhere, to be honest. We – we don’t have anywhere.”

 

Poison didn’t even have to think. “Wanna live with us?”

 

Youngblood blinked in shock, his round face suddenly looking even more childlike.

 

“Doesn’t have to be forever, even. Just until you sort yourselves out, get everything together.” Poison smiled. “What d’you say?”

 

Standard frowned, like he couldn’t quite comprehend what he’d just heard. “You serious? You actually have a place to live? You don’t have to move? You have, like, buildings, and a place to sleep?”

 

Poison nodded.

 

“Holy shit, yes!” Standard let out a whoop.

 

“Okay, one second, excuse us.” Cemetery yanked Poison sharply to the side, barely out of earshot, and fixed him with a legendary scowl. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

 

“No?” Poison frowned.

 

“Why? They’ll end up staying, and that’s four more mouths to feed-“

 

“Exactly.” That shut Cemetery up, so Poison ploughed forward. “That’s four more bodies to do patrols, go on runs. Look, man, the Idiots have gone. Brightside’s gone. Dr D’s never gonna fight again. We need numbers.”

 

“Numbers for what?”

 

Poison glanced around, caught everyone staring at them, and realised their conversation hadn’t been remotely quiet or private. He grinned, turning back to face Cemetery. “Revenge.”

**Author's Note:**

> Party Poison - Gerard Way  
> Kobra Kid - Mikey Way  
> Fun Ghoul - Frank Iero  
> Jet Star - Ray Toro  
> Cemetery - Bob Bryar
> 
> Youngblood - Patrick Stump  
> Gold Standard - Pete Wentz  
> After Life - Joe Trohman  
> Antivenom - Andy Hurley
> 
> Saint Jimmy - Billie Joe Armstrong  
> Letterbomb - Mike Dirnt  
> Jesus if Suburbia - Tre Cool
> 
> Cyanide - Helena Way (Rush)
> 
> Supernova - Noel Gallagher  
> Wonderwall - Liam Gallagher


End file.
